The Musician Speaks

Today is my birthday. I have the luxury of two every year, though this has not always been the case. On September 3, 1666, a man in his thirtieth year died and was reborn. The account has already been recorded in hyperbolic detail, thanks to my scribe’s obsession with adjectives, and is of no significance here except to note that, while it defines me as an immortal in a mortal world, it does little to define me as a sentient being.

I assure you, I am a sentient being.

My name is Julian. If you know me, you know me as a vampire, since none are left who knew me as a man. I might have resented this in ordinary circumstances, but my life is nothing close to ordinary. Even among vampires, I am unusual.

You see, I like people. I live among you as a predator, but I regard you with neither the disdain nor the disrespect developed by those of my kind who would preserve their sanity. I genuinely enjoy your company. I admire your accomplishments. I also fear for your (indeed, our) future in light of climate change and global warming. That being said, I have no aspirations to reclaim my mortality. I like what I am. Ironically, had I not been what I am, I would not have discovered my true passion.

I am a vampire, yes. I am also—perhaps more so—a musician. A pianist, to be specific; deliriously, passionately devoted to an instrument that would not have existed in my lifetime had I been doomed to the requisite threescore and ten years. Almost two centuries after my conversion, I was on the cusp of becoming just another blood hunter when I heard a sublime melody twinkling over the street where I was stalking that night’s prey. The sound was so arresting that I promptly forgot my purpose.

I believe I experienced what is currently referred to as an “a-ha moment.” At the time, it was a spontaneous rekindling of something deeper and more pure than the primal instinct that had lately been my constant companion. I was literally stopped in my tracks. What was that sound? Music, yes; I remembered music, but the instrument; what was crafting that incredible aural jewel?

Something tugged at the fringe of my awareness. A pianoforte? Impossible. Precisely translated as “soft/loud”, it is a harp turned on its side, played as a harpsichord is played, by hands on a keyboard, but the strings are struck rather than plucked. More marvelous yet, the volume on a pianoforte can be controlled as a harpsichord’s cannot—though few composers at that time bothered to coax the keys into making music when pounding them more effectively produced the appropriate romantic angst. This elegant string of sonic pearls, this was something different; the tone, the resonance, the pitch of each luminous note was enough to drive me to the door of the building and demand an audience with the master.

A fellow named Frédéric was responsible. Reluctant at first, he was eventually persuaded to instruct me, and I proved an exceptional student. I was so eager for my lessons that I often went without hunting. I practiced incessantly on a Steinway purchased for the purpose, annoying my neighbours so much that I was forced to find a residence better suited to the grandeur of my obsession. My thirst for blood had been surpassed by a thirst for music, for his music. He considered me a prodigy, and when I told him that my skill was merely to replicate a piece after one hearing, he argued that skill is one thing. Soul is another entirely. If the player is the lover and the piano his beloved, he assured me with a smile, I was destined for fame and an ardent female following.

He presented me to his compatriots, a gang of half-mad geniuses who churned out masterpieces at a furious pace and gaped in dumbstruck disbelief as I lifted each work to unimagined heights on the first try. Was I proud of my ability? Indeed I was. Was I cheating? Indeed I was not. What talent is not honed with practice? I was in love with my art. I was a diligent pupil. What propensity I had could only be improved over time. My advantage was in having more time than most.

Frédéric’s prediction was prophetic. I did become famous. For a year or two, I was the celebrated darling of the Continent and toured extensively before I drew the attention of my own kind and it became too dangerous to continue. As for women …

There was one. That, too, is recounted in the hyperbolic record, but let me say here that my love for music went unmatched by anyone or anything until I met my Thérèse. The scope of that love kept me from sacrificing it to make her immortal; had I loved her less, I might have granted her request—a request made in equal measures of sincerity and ignorance, given the inevitable fate of immortal couples to uncouple. Good God, in this day and age, you mortals mate and separate more than once in a puny lifetime! Imagine the imbalance if a vampire was made from every failed relationship!

No, it is better—wiser—to love for the moment and let it pass in due course. If it lasts, by all means, cherish it, but do not think to make it last forever. In its perfect form, love is already eternal.

Music has been my saving grace. My piano is my mistress, my old friend Frédéric my muse. I play all sorts of things nowadays. Classical predominantly, and jazz when I feel particularly inventive. Idle tinkering when the mood strikes, glimmers of starlight that I hope my old mentor would have approved. Occasionally, I will play the soundtrack of a Broadway musical from start to finish. I do not sing. The Steinway sings for me and my heart sings along with it.

Content as I am, however, I have one secret longing.

It would be pleasant to fall in love again.